


Hosanna

by withinandwithout



Category: True Detective
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Can be seen as Rust/Marty, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2821742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withinandwithout/pseuds/withinandwithout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stakes ain't that high anyway. I get found, I take a bullet to the head."</p><p>Rust was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

True to Crash's track record, the night had gone about as badly as it could have. But also true to Crash's track record, Rust had come too far to give up on it now. His head was reeling, rebelling against that shit Ginger had cut the meth with. But through the jerkiness of his thoughts, the dryness of his mouth, the adrenaline, his blurred vision, he knew: as long as he had Ginger, he could still get Ledoux.

The moment the first shot rang out, things got a lot simpler. He grabbed Ginger and ran. The game was over; they just had to get out.

The question was how they were going to get out. The place had gone from 0 to 125 in a few short minutes, and Rust ticked off blocked escape routes in his head as they ran. Finally he got to a phone, hoping that Marty was nearby, wasn't doing something stupid that was gonna hold things up.

Marty, on the other end of the phone, didn't understand - or share - his sense of urgency, and if Rust had had the time, he might have been able to understand why. Marty wasn't fucked up, running for his life and pulling an idiotic, bleeding, grown man through a minefield after watching several people get shot. But to his credit, Marty was close enough to be at the right place at the right time. Just ninety more seconds. 

Right on cue, Ginger launched a desperate attempt to make a run for it, and Rust smashed the phone against the wall and dashed after him.

Rust had to take out two guys who ambushed him, and in the process, panic set in. He was wasting time and he didn't have Ginger. But then Ginger came running back to him like Crash was the lesser evil. Like even though he didn't know what Crash was doing, there were worse things than him in the air tonight. Rust knew he was wrong; nothing was worse than Crash. He cracked Ginger over the head for trying to get away and, panic subdued, he headed towards Marty ("towards safety", he thought) as quickly and carefully as he could.

Rust stopped to dodge a gang of men - all locked and loaded - running out of a house. By the time he realized he'd miscalculated, it was too late. A girl had also walked out of the house, had been standing there, had seen Rust and Ginger. And now she was ratting them out, yelling at the gang to turn around. Rust and Ginger were almost at the fence when Rust realized they were coming. Fast.

The first bullet knocked him back like an explosion, his left shoulder smacked with a punch so hard that he was pounded to the ground. Adrenaline and drugs picked him back up before he had even realized what had happened. He'd lost Ginger again, found him now nearby on the ground, unharmed but smart enough to stay down.

Rust ran right into the second bullet, planted his foot on the ground right before he felt it rip through his right thigh. He dropped again, and this time his body felt like lead. The world swooped away from him, his motor skills deadened, and he ceased to see what was wrong with just lying down for a little while.

The guys with the guns ran off, apparently sated of them, and Ginger stopped playing dead. He crawled over to Rust and, satisfied that Rust was far enough out of it, started to search him. Rust lingered on the edge of consciousness, present but unresponsive. He felt disconnected from what was happening to him. His body wouldn't respond to anything his brain was telling it to do, so he let Ginger continue to rifle though his pockets. He'd left behind every trace of who he really was, anyway.

Ginger was talking to him now from the end of a tunnel, his voice more of a wheeze than anything.

"Crash, what the fuck, you motherfucker. The fuck were you doing?"

He received no answer, just Crash staring at him blankly through half-closed eyes. The only movement at all from Crash came in the form of the bloodstains growing on his pants and jacket.

"I gotta take you to Miles, you fuck. Ain't gonna let this slide. What the fuck are you?"

Rust heard the name "Miles" and thought maybe he should be concerned. But he just felt tired, irresistibly so, and he figured it would be alright to close his eyes for a second. Marty would be along. 

 **

Marty pulled up at Amelia St. between 18th and 19th bang on time. He waited for Rust to show up, to fill him in on what the fuck was going on.

He waited for half an hour. Rust didn't show up.


	2. Chapter 2

Rust woke up on the floor. At first, he didn't feel that bad; just a pounding headache and a lingering sense of dread.

Then he realized that he couldn't move his arms. Ropes cut into his wrists, which were tied behind his back.

And his legs were bound from the knees down. There was blood on the floor around him, but he wasn't sure if it was his.

He tried to shift, to get his bearings, and then the pain came - sharp and hard and from everywhere, like an electric shock. He tried to cry out on instinct, but the sound was stopped by something covering his mouth. Duct tape, by the smell of it. He could taste it too, even through his closed lips. His leather jacket was gone, t-shirt soaked with blood and sweat. He figured it was his blood on the floor.

A sharp kick between his shoulder blades knocked him forward, and Ginger moseyed into view as Rust rolled onto his uninjured side, trying to keep tension off his left shoulder. His thigh, where a bullet was still buried, screamed in protest.

"I always had a funny feeling about you, Crash," Ginger said. "You was too sharp. Critical."

Ginger was holding an ice pack to his own nose, a bottle of whisky in his other hand, and Rust could see enough to know that they were in Ginger's trailer. It hadn't changed much since the last time he'd been there.

Rust stilled, mind racing. What did Ginger know, and what was he guessing at?

Ginger was looking at him tenderly, like Rust had disappointed him.

"Shoulda known better than to fuck with the IC Brotherhood."

Behind Rust, a door opened and closed, and another pair of footsteps, all business, approached. Motorcycle boots came into Rust's eye line and he looked up. Miles sneered down at him.

"Long time, Crash. How the mighty have fallen."

Miles reached down towards Rust and ripped off the duct tape covering his mouth. Rust winced, stretched his face. Miles smirked at him and turned away.

"Heard a rumor you'd popped up again. Not from Ginger, though. He didn't tell me shit."

Miles glared at Ginger as he walked past him towards the kitchen. Ginger glanced down, unnerved.

"If he'da told me, I would've said not to see you. No one comes back from the dead. Not even you, Crash."

Miles opened a drawer and picked out a knife, thick and heavy.

"But Ginger here ain't that smart. Or maybe he just missed you."

Ginger ducked his head, resentful but silent, and took a swig from his whisky bottle. Miles headed back towards Rust, turning the knife in his hands. 

Rust began to wonder what dying would feel like. Relief, maybe. Maybe nothing. He felt sure that it wouldn't be worse than this. He hated this, only because he was helpless. 

"So we figure you could be a few things. FBI. Maybe a narc, since you asked about our cook. Might be like Sons of Silence hired you to get one over on us. You got one chance to tell us, or you ain't gonna like what's coming."

Miles paused, and Rust locked eyes with Ginger, who looked away self-consciously. Rust turned the truth over in his mind; that he was after Ledoux, not them - he didn't give a shit about them. But there was still Marty, and so there was still a chance that Ledoux could be caught somehow. Another way, now that they'd tried this. Rust would be a lost chess piece, nothing more. Marty would carry on without him. Hopefully. If he did the right thing.

Miles got impatient. "So what's it gonna be, Crash?" he asked sharply. "Who do you work for?"

Rust's voice came out as hardly more than a rasp: "Let's get this over with, alright?"

Something toughened in Ginger's face and Miles smirked again, teeth flashing.

"Alright then. If it were up to me, I'd put a bullet in your head right fucking now, Crash. But our cook's changed some things, and we deal in people now too. Just one thing from us; you ain't wearing the Brotherhood no more."

Miles stepped forward with the knife and grabbed Rust's right arm roughly. He swung Rust around so that he was forced onto his stomach. Miles rested a knee on his back, pinning him down. Rust couldn't see what was going on, but he knew what was about to happen.

He'd gotten the tattoo, with Ginger standing by him, after about three months with the Iron Crusaders. It was a rite of passage, a commitment to the brotherhood and a privilege that only a chosen few were allowed. The skeletal bird - cawing, in flight - was the symbol of the gang. It was on the back of the leather jacket that'd now been taken from him; Miles had pulled the jacket off a dead IC biker after a shootout and given to him, just a month after he'd joined up with them. Crash had always wanted a family, and he'd found it. When told, he was ready and willing to ink the deal. Rust hadn't cared very much. He didn't see any exit strategy from this life, couldn't think of a situation where it would matter down the road, since he was never getting out. And the dead bird felt strangely appropriate. Rust was nothing more than a skeleton, anyway: still breathing and moving, but lifeless. 

Miles began. The knife felt hot and wet through the skin on Rust's arm, and he gagged and shivered as Miles slowly drew the knife through the length of the bird, a deep cut voiding it from his arm. Rust felt the blood on his back, hot and sticky. The room spun, the stinging pain eclipsing everything. He refused to cry out, afraid that it would mean something if he did. 

Finished, Miles rose again. He walked away and threw the knife on the kitchen counter, eyeing Ginger, who had watched solemnly.

"I'm calling Dewall," Miles told Ginger sharply. "You stay here and look at what happens to fucking idiots."

Darkness swooped towards Rust once again, and he welcomed it.

When he woke up, there was a third pair of feet. A new, thick pair of legs. Rust tried to shift, but the floor around him was now slippery with blood that was all his.

The newcomer bent down and grabbed his face, forcing him to meet his eyes. Rust assumed that this was Dewall. Big and mean and, Rust could see - plain as day -smart. A dangerous combination.

Dewall smiled at him mockingly, but addressed the other two. "He's real pretty, Ginger. How long y'all go back?"

Ginger glared at Dewall's back, but answered grudgingly.

"Few years now."

Dewall dropped Rust's face, which hit the floor with a small thud.

"Aw, you must know each other real well. How come you never clocked he was a cop? I thought stupid-ass facial hair was a requirement with you guys - he don't have that."

"Aw, shut the fuck up, Dewall. You been a fucking asshole since --" Ginger was silenced by a sharp glance from Miles. Rust settled onto his side again as well as he could. He tried to listen, but the voices were muffled, echoing in his head as though he was listening from underwater. 

"We want a hundred grams this time," Miles was telling Dewall. "We got you the last one cheap."

"Don't fuck with me, Miles. You giving me a grown man. You know that ain't how he likes."

"C'mon Dewall. What do you got right now?"

"Them two kids. Going on one kid."

"You need a replacement, see? Check him out; he's got a bullet in his shoulder an' leg. He ain't gonna give you trouble. And he can't go back to the world, he ain't safe, so do whatever you want with him."

"Eighty grams. He can't go back to the world, like you said. I'm saving you the bullet."

Miles looked down at Rust, who was drifting. He looked at Ginger, who had forced a hardened look onto his face.

"Done."

And just like that, Rust belonged to Ledoux.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: warnings for drugs and implied sexual abuse.

The next time Rust regained consciousness, it was day, and he had the odd sensation of floating. He was being carried through thick brush by Dewall. His head was bumping against Dewall's fat chest, Dewall's arms around his shoulders and the back of his knees. Rust tried to stay awake, tried to map out where they were and where they were going, but try as he might, he slid towards warm darkness again.

As Dewall marched on, Rust's last conscious thought was a vaguely horrifying one: his body was failing him.

A harsh thud woke him next. Dewall had dropped him unceremoniously on the ground, and was now heading away from him towards a broken-down trailer house. A cloud of dust rose around Rust, but through it, he could see what his surroundings looked like. 

If Marty was looking for him, thought Rust, he should just look at the end of the world. Everything he could see was broken down, rotting, disintegrating. Rust had felt it a few times before and recognized it now: he was in the presence of evil.

A few minutes passed and Rust floated in and out until he heard footsteps approaching. A giant walked into his field of vision, bleached hair, scabby face, teeth that were rotting nubs. The giant was naked, except for a towel wrapped around his waist, white supremacist tattoos that appeared to Rust to be moving. There was no mistaking Reggie Ledoux. He sneered down at Rust.

"What's your name, boy?"

Rust tried to answer, but no voice came out.

"Speak up now."

Rust managed to rasp out, "Crash."

"Oh no, that won't do here."

Ledoux picked up a bare, filthy foot and stepped directly onto the bullet hole in Rust's left shoulder.

Rust couldn't help but cry out, a sharp yelp that startled nearby birds into the sky. A trace of pleasure crossed Ledoux's face.

"What's your name?"

The pain brought on a wave of nausea, and Rust closed his eyes and swallowed hard before uttering the only name he felt safe saying.

"Travis."

Ledoux studied him, unmoving for a moment, and then apparently he was satisfied. He stepped off of Rust's shoulder, which throbbed with fresh pain.

"Travis. Alright. You ain't the right type for the King, but you can still be useful to us."

Dewall grabbed Rust by the collar of his shirt and dragged him across the dirt into a shack right next to the house. He pulled him into a chair facing a wall, tied Rust's arms and legs to the chair so tight that Rust could barely move.

Dewall left and slammed the door behind him.

Rust thought briefly about trying to escape, somehow, but this idea was quickly discarded. Even if he could get loose, he had no idea where he was, and he was far too weak to set out to look for civilization. Furthermore, his captors knew this area, and it would be easy for them to find him. But Rust knew the real reason why he wouldn't try to leave: he had come this far, and he was going to stay the course until he knew Ledoux was as good as done. No matter what.

That decided, his main task was to gather any and all information he could. But while he was facing nothing but a wall, he needed to rest. He closed his eyes and focused inward.

He was woken by a rough slap on the top of his head. He raised it slowly, foggy and disoriented. Ledoux stood at Rust's left side, too close, invading his personal space on purpose. He knelt down next to Rust, foul breath on his cheek, and pulled out a syringe. Dirty. It looked like death.

Rust could only watch, dazed and silent, as Ledoux gripped his injured shoulder, pulling it around so that the inside of his elbow was exposed. Ledoux wrapped a stale, soiled bandana around his upper arm, cutting off the circulation. He licked his thumb, wiped some of the dried blood away and located a vein. The needle paused, poised over his skin.

"Don't worry. You'll thank me for this. Once you meet Him."

And the needle went in, plunger went down, and it was done. 

Rust wasn't afraid of whatever Ledoux was putting in his bloodstream; hell, he'd done it all before, knew he could handle himself the same way he always had. He wasn't scared of Ledoux either, or anything Ledoux could do to him. Life or death, it was all the same. He was curious, actually, to see what Dora Lange had been given, exactly how the drugs had been used in her murder. But he also had a job to do; he needed to keep his mind sharp, and until this job was done, he needed to remain alive. He was only bitter about his helplessness, about the fact that he'd become in a victim in a situation he was supposed to control. 

Ledoux moved away towards the wall in front of Rust. And Rust realized, for the first time, that it wasn't a wall at all. It was a door. Ledoux reached down for the handle and pulled. It slid upwards.

He saw the two kids. The boy lay still, too still, but the girl stirred and sat up to look at him. For the first time, Rust felt a surge of horror. He saw the girl's bones under her dirty, translucent skin, saw the chains around her bruised and torn ankles. Her eyes were piercing. Ledoux was watching him for a reaction.

"I know what you are, Travis. Police. Look at the girl you cannot save. Time is a flat circle; you have been here before. The Yellow King teaches us to take control of that which would haunt us."

Ledoux's words echoed horribly in Rust's head and suddenly a strong sense of impending doom came over him. His heart began to race, beating wildly against his chest. He couldn't take his eyes off the girl in front of him, who was returning his stare unblinkingly. There were so many things he wished he could say to her, so many apologies that he'd owed her for so long, but his thoughts were becoming less coherent, even as his vision sharpened, colors becoming brighter. Ledoux was still speaking, but Rust couldn't make out his words. He wished the girl would look away.

But she didn't look away. And suddenly, the humanity disappeared from her eyes. Her teeth bared at him in an ugly, frightening jeer. Rust jerked back, startled. 

The girl rose, as if weightless, and started crawling towards him, never breaking eye contact, a horrible expression of hatred on her face. She climbed down from her cell towards Rust, gaining speed at an impossible pace. When the chains strained against her legs, she snapped them easily with a jerk of each leg, and, free at least, she bounded towards Rust, snarling, teeth gnashing. He began to yell, scared out of his mind, jerking in his chair, unable to escape. She dove at him, fingers clawing at his eyes, trying to gouge them out. Her teeth ripped at his skin, she was kicking, tearing his hair out, trying to rip him to shreds. Rust screamed with pain and horror, but she was unshakeable in the intensity of her attack. She put her finger in the bullet hole in his leg, then two fingers, started working the wound wider and wider. Rust's vision began to darken, he was losing strength and this would be it, this insane girl would kill him.

He surrendered.

And when he came to, Ledoux was standing over him with a satisfied look on his face.

Rust looked fearfully at the cell in front of him. The girl sat there, quiet, chained and shivering, looking at him with an expression of sad understanding. He checked himself over anxiously, but his body was intact, at least as much as it had been. 

Rust realized that his ability to tell hallucinations from reality had been compromised by whatever Ledoux had dosed him with. He tried to record this observation rationally in his mind, but he was shaken to his core. 

And in a way, Ledoux was right: he was supposed to be this girl's liberator, but he could do nothing, tied to a chair, woozy from blood loss and doped out of his mind.

Rust could only think of one thing, repeating it in his head like a mantra, although he would never admit it out loud: _Where are you, Marty?_

Ledoux looked towards the girl and made sure she was watching. He stepped towards Rust.

"Carcosa embraces you. Let's prepare you for the King." Ledoux flipped open a butterfly knife and started cutting off Rust's shirt.

\-----

It was nearly midnight when the phone rang at Maggie's parents' house. Her mother and father had gone to bed -- they seemed to do that earlier and earlier these days -- and the kids had been asleep for a while. Maggie dove for the phone before the sound could wake her parents or kids. And then she almost slammed it back down when she heard Marty on the other end.

"No, Mags, please don't hang up. It's about Rust."

She sighed, jaw clenched. This was probably another lie, bait Marty was dangling just to keep her on the phone. And yet ....

She felt protective of Rust, and Marty knew that. She understood him. She felt sorry for him, but she also admired him. Usually, she realized how fucked-up that combination was and then she stopped thinking about it. Stopped trying to figure it out, even though Rust never would have. He would've picked at it until it fell apart. 

"What about Rust? Make it quick, Marty."

"I think something happened to him. I don't know where he is, and it's been 24 hours."

Maggie sighed, rubbed her temples.

"What did you do, Marty?"

"Well, here's the thing, Mags. He, uh ... he ain't in Alaska, like we told everyone."

"Yeah, Marty, I know that. I saw him last week, remember?" Maggie cut in sharply.

There was silence on Marty's end, like he was trying to figure out how to say exactly what he needed to.

"Marty, you need to tell me right now what you guys are doing."

Mary cleared his throat. "I guess he went undercover again for this case we got, and uh ... I lost track of him. Somethin' went wrong and he hasn't turned up. Hasn't been brought in and he was with a rough crowd and I'm gettin' a little worried here. Like maybe something happened ...."

Marty trailed off, the implications of what he didn't say hanging heavy on the phone line. Maggie's hand came up to her mouth and she felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. Marty found his voice again.

"See, the thing is: I can't really tell the guys at the station, can't report it, because they think he's in Alaska. Rust insisted on doing it this way. I'm on my own here and I'm not real sure what to do. So I, uh ... I called you, because y'know ... you know him," he finished lamely.

Maggie's shock morphed into fury. Rust was in trouble, and that was partly his fault because he should have known better than to say "fuck the system" when he might have actually needed it. But Rust was Rust, and he was always going to do things his way, even if he did know better.

Marty, on the other hand, knew better and should have acted accordingly instead of letting Rust run around like a kid with a water gun in a game where everyone else had real guns.

"So let me get this straight, Marty. You told a lie to cover up your own wrongdoings, and now that the situation has gone wrong, someone close to you may be hurt and you'll do anything but tell the truth. Sound familiar?" 

"Maggie, please, I ---"

"No. Don't fucking try it. You never learn, Marty. Do the right thing and report Rust missing."

"Alright. I hear you, Mags, I really do. It's just that could mean losing his job, and he doesn't have anything else. I'd probably get suspended, at least. And he could be fine, you know? He could just be still working the case ...." Marty sounded unconvinced.

"Report it, Marty. You're a fucking cop."

Maggie hung up before Marty could protest. She tried to calm her mind, settle herself. Fear gripped her at the thought that Rust might be hurt, trapped somewhere, in trouble with no lifeline. And she knew herself well enough to know that she was going to call Marty back eventually because Rust's life was more important to her than making a point. She was going to need to know all she could about what happened, where Rust could be, how she could help.

But not yet. Her pride wouldn't let her quite yet.


	4. Chapter 4

It came down to the guy with the red beard.

Redbeard, as Marty dubbed him, was the key to finding Rust. Marty was sure of it. He had to be sure, because that's all he had to go on.

Marty was sitting in Rust's kitchen, three whiskys in and no closer to knowing what had happened to his partner. ID pictures, left behind by Rust, were scattered on the counter in front of him, and Redbeard was the only one that Marty recognized. He'd barely caught a glimpse, but he felt sure it was him that Rust had taken off with down the bayou.

Marty felt cornered, like Rust had trapped him with very few options. His hands were tied at the station by Rust's Alaska cover, and at this point, he was fucking worried. Days had passed. Rust had left no traces, hadn't even kept Marty in the loop enough to follow his tracks. Which was typical, really. Rust had always acted like he was doing Marty a favor by letting him work with him. Acted like he didn't enjoy the idea of going off on his own with this thing, but of course he did. No one had forced him, and he'd given Marty no role but keeping watch with a stupid phone.

Marty kept the stupid phone charged. Kept trying to call Rust. Nothing. Kept trying so he felt like he was doing something. It didn't help.

He'd spent the last few days making phone calls to the Beaumont PD, asking about arrests, casualties, missing persons, anything from that night. He'd driven back out there, too, and gone door to door through the housing projects, showing Rust's picture and asking if anyone had seen him. Some people had, maybe, but no one knew where he'd gone. And there were still a lot of people MIA.

Maggie had called him back, asking him exactly what had happened. He'd told her everything, and he couldn't tell if she was angrier at him before or now. She told him again to tell the station what had happened. So now he was sitting in Rust's kitchen, thinking that he had two options: find Redbeard or follow Maggie's advice and suffer the consequences. And he knew the longer it took, the worse his chance of finding Rust still breathing was. Even if Rust was fine, still on the job, this had never been the plan.

Marty stood up and stretched, heart sinking at the realization that he wouldn't make any more progress tonight. His eye caught the siren-red foot locker that Rust had unpacked his fucked-up alter-ego from. It had been strange watching Rust morph into Crash over the last few weeks. He'd heard rumors, but with Rust's files still classified, he didn't know what to believe. Then he saw the strange animal that set up camp in place of Rust, and he figured there was no rumor too wild for what this guy was.

Hell, even Rust hadn't known what'd happened to Crash in the end. He'd had to check in with his old handler. 

And suddenly, Marty's heart froze. His old handler. Who'd known him as Crash. Who'd known who he'd known as Crash.

He practically dove for the foot locker. Pulling out Crash's shit out without regard, looking for one thing.

He found it in the form of a stained napkin with thick black scrawl on it. Not Rust's handwriting, but probably given to him when he reported at some point. Name and number, and "Lt." before the name. It was all Marty needed. He rushed for the phone.

He heard ringing on the other end before he realized how late it was. Disappointment sunk in as he realized he probably wouldn't get anywhere until the morning.

But then there was a click on the other end, and a groggy voice.

"Hello?"

Marty paused, caught completely off-guard, before he recovered. 

"Oh, uh, hello, is this Lt. Greg Peterson?"

"Who is this?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize I was calling you at home. This is Detective Martin Hart, I'm, um, I'm State CID in Louisiana, and I believe you know my partner, Rustin Cohle."

There was a long pause on the other end, and then suddenly Peterson sounded a lot more alert.

"Rust Cohle. So you're the sucker who ended up with him on homicide."

"I just wanted to know if you could tell me about someone Rust -- uh, Cohle -- ran with when he was undercover for your task force. It's to do with a case, the guy might be a K.A., and uh ... I can't get a hold of Cohle at the moment."

"Is there something going on that the task force needs to know about?"

"No, sir. Nothing to do with narcotics."

There was another long pause.

"You know, it's really none of my business, but Cohle called me a few weeks ago. Asked me about his cover. Is everything alright with him, Detective?"

Marty was on the verge of spilling. He hated being alone on this thing and somehow found it comforting to talk to someone who knew Rust, who might actually be able to help. But ...

"Everything's fine, sir. He's in Alaska visiting his dad right now, and I have to move on this case in the meantime. Cohle mentioned this biker -- guy with a red beard, rides with the Iron Crusaders -- that he used to work with when he was in HIDTA. Obviously, Cohle won't go near him, but he said while it was just me on this thing, I should pump him as a K.A. of someone we're looking into now."

"Yeah, I know who you mean. Goes by "Ginger". Him and Cohle were close for a while. I'll send over the guy's file in the morning."

"Thanks so much. You don't know how helpful this is."

"Alright. Good night."

Curiosity got the better of Marty before he could stop himself.

"Wait -- Lieutenant? If you don't mind me asking, what was Cohle like as an undercover?"

Peterson sighed on the other end, and Marty wondered if he'd gone too far.

"He was good. Too good, actually. Like he had a fuckin' death wish that was never granted. Never seen anything like him and I never want to again. Good luck, Detective."

And the line went dead.

Marty set down the phone and went to bed, thinking all the while about Rust's fuckin' death wish. He hoped against hope that it still hadn't been granted.

\-----

Rust surfaced in the darkness, naked and shivering with cold. The door to the girl's cell was shut, silence behind it. There was nothing but the sound of crickets.

He raised his head, pain radiating through his body at the slightest motion. Through his haze, he could feel eyes on him. He couldn't have explained it, but he knew.

He looked towards the door, where the only light came from a dim bulb swinging in the breeze. Silhouetted in the open doorframe loomed a huge, imposing man, standing stock-still. Rust couldn't see the man's eyes, but he knew he was watching him. 

In the low light, the skin on the man's face appeared to be shining.

The man continued to watch him, unmoving. And without seeing his face, Rust knew who it was.

But then again, Rust reminded himself, he could no longer tell was real and what was only in his mind. Not since Ledoux started dosing him with that shit. He had no proof that there was a man in the doorway at all. It was a strange comfort, but it was all he could do to suppress the sense of fear rising within him.

"You stick around now," said the figure in a gleeful, almost sing-song-y voice. "I'll see you again soon."

And the man disappeared, leaving Rust alone in the darkness again. In a brief, brutal moment of clarity, Rust knew that he was running out of time.


	5. Chapter 5

Ledoux slammed the door of the truck closed and pulled the camouflage netting over the whole thing before making the trek back to the encampment. It was quiet around, late morning sun beating down. Dewall probably wasn't even up yet. He'd been pretty tanked the night before.

Reggie, on the other hand, had been busy. He had been to church, where the King had passed judgment on their captive's sins and chosen to honor him. It would be a crucifixion for Travis. 

Personally, Ledoux thought Travis was more of a Judas type, given what the Brotherhood had said, but the Yellow King had decreed otherwise. And Reggie wasn't about to argue with him.

Back at base, he walked over to a pile of unused wood beams behind the shack and picked out two that would work well enough. Found a box of rusted nails, a heavy hammer, and some rope. Set it all aside for when the King wanted it. He'd said soon. The King liked to do his own handiwork, but Ledoux supplied the raw materials. The body and the drugs, and, in this case, the wood, the rope, the hammer, and the nails. But each time was different.

Ledoux was a faithful acolyte in serving his priest, and the King sometimes told him so. It felt good to serve a higher purpose, to remain part of the body of mankind. And when the ceremonies took place, it was a source of pride to Ledoux that he had played such a role.

He walked into the shack and found Travis curled up in a ball on the ground, passed out, blood dripping sideways out of his nose. That must have been from Dewall the night before. Travis looked weak, smeared with blood and dirt, breathing shallow and uneven. He'd better hang on, thought Ledoux, now that he had a higher purpose to serve. He would tell the King that time, ever-circling, was of the essence.

With his foot, as though drawing a picture in the dirt, Ledoux spread Travis' limbs out to form a cross, pushing him onto his back, pulling his legs out straight, and spreading his arms perpendicular to his body. Travis moaned as his injured body was moved, but didn't wake up. Ledoux pictured what the crucifixion would look like, and a thrill of excitement shot up his spine. The Yellow King reigned supreme, and Ledoux knew that even he couldn't do the things the King did. But one of the reasons Ledoux stuck around was that they got off the same way.

He looked up and saw the door to the girl's cell open. She was watching him fearfully, transfixed and silent. The dead boy was still in there next to her, but Ledoux didn't feel like doing anything about that right now. As for the girl, the King had yet to call her. She'd keep a while longer. Ledoux turned and left the shack again, anticipation filling his mind. He left Travis as he was and wondered if he would pick up on the symbolism if and when he woke up.

Rust did wake up shortly after Ledoux slammed the shed door shut behind him. He didn't try to move for a long time.

Rust knew why the Ledouxs had stopped bothering to tie him up. Knew as well as they did that he wasn't going anywhere. He managed to prop himself up against a wall inside the shack. The girl was staring at him, gaze unshakeable, but he couldn't look at her for fear that it would start again. He closed his eyes.

_If you forget you have a body, the world's going to make a fool out of you._

His father used to tell him that as a rationale for the PT he made him do every morning since he was five, and it came to mind now. The old man was right. Rust was attached to a physical body, was at the mercy of it, and that body had limits which were now being surpassed due to the constant abuse he was suffering. There was nothing more to it, and he knew that, plain as day.

But a new question now hung in his head, and his was a mind that didn't let go of things easily. He'd just woken to find his body in an unmistakable position, one that he knew he never would have arranged himself in. It was a hint, or a promise, and even through the fog clouding his brain, he thought he knew what it might mean.

He opened his eyes again and saw the girl still staring at him intensely. They made brief eye contact and then she moved, reaching for something under the filthy mattress she was sitting on. Rust ducked his chin, looking away from her and hoping that the hallucination would pass.

But a second later something landed with a small thud near his left foot. He looked and saw Ledoux's butterfly knife.

He looked up sharply at the girl and reached for the knife. It felt real in his hand. 

"Where did you get this?" he rasped out, awestruck. But she said nothing, only kept staring at him.

He weighed it in his hand, flipped it open. Slightly rusted, but still sharp. Lethal. He knew it all too well. 

Suddenly, Rust felt more alert than he had in days. Ever the realist, he knew that he could hardly take on two full-grown, well-fed, violent men in his current state. Not a chance. Hell, he couldn't even stand. But if he could at least go out fighting when his time came ... at least leave a mark to show for what he'd endured.

Suddenly, the girl spoke for the first time, slow, barely a whisper.

"The big one. Last night."

Rust remembered, even though his memory was shuttering, jarred. Dewall, drunk, smell overpowering. Must have left the knife when he staggered out. Rust hid the knife under a bucket on the ground near him, vaguely aware that the girl had placed some kind of hope and trust in him.

"Good girl."

\-----

Redbeard, Ginger, close enough. At 5 AM the day after he got the file from Peterson -- two days after he'd put in the phone call -- Marty kicked the guy's fucking door down.

Marty had spent the previous day -- and night -- staking out Ginger's place. At 4 am, Ginger had finally come home. Marty wasn't too surprised, remembered the skewed hours that Rust had started keeping before he -- well, before. 

Still, Marty had made himself wait for an hour after Ginger entered his trailer. He figured around 5 that he'd hit his safest bet for a wake up call. It was quiet in the trailer park, no one else out and about yet, and Marty found Ginger drooling onto his pillow half a second after he kicked in his door. Marty grabbed him, and Ginger shocked awake, confused and off-guard, as Marty dragged him out of his bed and onto the floor. Marty hit a light switch, throwing a low, yellow light on the room.

"What the fuck, man?!" Ginger yelled. "Who the fuck are you?"

Marty cocked his gun and held it right behind Ginger's ear. 

"Got some questions for you. You're gonna answer or it's gonna get fucking ugly, hear? Now, where the fuck is Rust?"

It felt good, in a way, to be operating outside of the law like this. Like he could throw off the chains of bureaucracy, flex his muscles, and actually make shit happen as a man. The same fury that had fueled Marty's attack on Lisa's new man was fueling him now. Maybe it wasn't so different. 

And if he thought about it, maybe he could understand why Rust had decided to work off the grid after all.

Ginger was looking at him, dumbfounded, still blinking awake.

Marty straightened up, and then went ahead and stepped on Ginger's face, pushing it to the side so the man could still talk. Drool and a small wheeze came out from under his heel. 

"Again: where the fuck is Rust?"

"Who the fuck is Rust?" Ginger sounded genuinely confused.

"You know him as Crash."

"Rust? For real? I don't know, man, that sounds like another fucking bullshit name."

Marty shifted more weight onto the foot holding Ginger down. Ginger groaned beneath him.

"Last time I'm asking. Where is he?"

"He's probably dead by now," Ginger's voice was muffled under his foot. "He got shot up and then Ledoux took him. Assholes like Crash don't last long around assholes like Ledoux. What do you want him for, anyway?"

He coughed, tried to squirm out from under Marty, but Marty held firm.

"Where's Ledoux?"

"Shit, I don't know. Guy pops up when he wants to. I don't exactly go 'round his house for tea."

"Bullshit. You got one supplier and you don't know where to find him? No way."

"I'm telling you, man."

Marty stepped off of Ginger's face, and looked him square in the eye. Ginger glared back, a mixture of fear and hatred in his eyes.

Something akin to fear was rising within Marty too. The possibility that Ginger might be a dead-end, that he might be back to square one ... no. He couldn't let that happen.

Without further ado, Marty raised the gun -- Ginger started shouting in protest -- and BLAM! He put a bullet through Ginger's foot.

Ginger screamed, writhing in agony, smearing blood on the floor with every contortion.

"Now if that don't inspire you to greatness, we can get really serious about things. You need to give me Ledoux's address or you need to get it. Right now, Ginger."

"Fuck! Jesus Christ, man. You fucking insane?"

Marty cocked the gun again.

"His fucking cookhouse," Ginger coughed out, and then stopped, panting. 

"Go on."

"Across state line. Take the Creole Nature Trail south of I-10 towards Carlyss. Couple miles down, there's a dirt fishing road on the right. Brings you out on the bayou. Walk across the bridge and head due west. It's way out there, man, ain't easy to find."

"If I go to out there and don't find any trace of Rust, I'm gonna come back here and shoot you in the other foot."

"There's fucking booby traps on the way, but it's pretty much due west. I don't fucking know what they did with him, man."

"Well, you'd better hope I find him alive."

Marty stepped towards the door, gun still trained on Ginger, who scrambled up against a wall, clutching his foot and staring down at it in horror. Marty only turned away when he had his hand on the doorknob behind him.

"You sure you know him?" The question came out of nowhere, and for a moment, Marty wasn't even sure Ginger had spoken.

"What's that?"

"Listen, man, the shit I been through with Crash, only to find out he ain't that guy at all. That is one fucked-up dude. Ain't no way of knowing someone like that. You'd better be sure he's straight before you go after Reggie Ledoux. Just sayin'."

"I fucking know him. Get that foot checked out."

Marty slammed the door as he left, and he was on his way. Praying that he was gonna be in time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter for this one! Big thank you to everyone for reading and kudoing and commenting. Hope you've enjoyed it!
> 
> Note: Upon another viewing of "The Secret Fate of All Life", I realized that Kelly Rita was actually in the shack adjacent to the house, not the trailer. I've changed this fic to reflect that, as that would be where they'd hold Rust. Not a huge change - I knew there was something I wouldn't catch!

A few hours after Marty peeled out of Ginger's trailer park, Rust was woken when Dewall swung open the door to the shack, carrying a small plate of awful-looking food.

Dewall tossed the plate towards him, its contents spilling onto the ground. He walked over to the girl's cell and gave the door a violent yank downward. Rust and the girl made brief eye contact; a mutual understanding between them before the door clanged shut. Dewall turned his attention to Rust half a second after Rust retrieved the knife from under the bucket and hid it on the ground behind his body, close to the wall.

"Got good news for you," said Dewall. "It's happening tonight. We'll go later."

He knelt down right in front of Rust.

"To Carcosa."

Rust was only half-listening, but the word stirred something in his memory. Dewall noticed.

"You've heard of it. I'm glad. It's another world there, Travis. It knows your whole life. Time uncloaks itself and everyone unmasks in Carcosa."

Dewall pulled out a needle and took hold of Rust's arm. Rust was used to this by now, and something in him hoped that they would just go ahead and give him an overdose. End all of this.

"Your mask is already slipping. Rusted, corroded since you arrived here, and I can see what it looks like. Part of society. Adjusted. Functional. Like the more you can blend in, more you'll keep that storm inside of you contained."

Rust resented this, but he was careful not to react. His free hand found the butterfly knife hidden on the ground behind him. If this was to be it ....

"Carcosa will lay you bare. It casts a long shadow on all of us who the King has marked. In every iteration of every concentric circle."

Out of nowhere, a single gunshot sounded. Close at hand, echoing in the silence. Rust and Dewall both froze. Dewall looked towards the closed door with a trance of anxiety on his face, and Rust had no idea what was going on, but he knew what he was hoping for and this was his chance. He flung open the butterfly knife and lunged with all the pathetic effort he could muster.

His attack didn't have anything close to the power he would have liked, but Rust had always been naturally precise when it came to violence. It was a source of pride, like an athlete who knew the exact ability of his body, and it did not fail him now. 

The knife sliced Ledoux's throat from ear to ear, spraying blood and catching the larger man off-guard. Rust followed up again, going for his eyes next, stabbing the man in the face and throat as many times as he could before Dewall recovered. Dewall did recover, grabbing Rust's wrist and twisting it hard enough for the resulting sharp pain to make him drop the knife. But it was too late. Dewall staggered up, body reduced to only the most primal instincts now, and he lurched blindly, a horrible gurgling noise emerging as he tried to scream. He took two drunken steps and then fell face-forward on the ground, dead. 

Rust wiped the blood out of his own eyes, newly exhausted. The room was bending and constricting around him. He waited, his victory feeling hollow as he still did not possess the requisite strength to escape. He only hoped that the gunshot meant what he thought it did. But adrenaline could only carry him so far, and darkness took him before he could find out.

\-----

Marty stood over the body of Reggie Ledoux, which was missing half of its head. He'd finally reached the encampment after taking several wrong turns and narrowly avoiding getting blown up multiple times. There were twig lattices hanging from trees on the way out, guiding him in some horrible way. He didn't know where he was going, but there was sure as shit _something_ out there. And he didn't have a good feeling about it.

When he finally reached the place, he'd found Ledoux in the shower. He didn't think very highly of shooting an unarmed, naked man, but it had happened anyway once Ledoux had refused to put his hands on his head, had reached for a hatchet stuck in a wall nearby instead. And besides, Marty didn't like that stupid fucking sneer on his face.

Marty stared at the body - his first - for a few seconds before he was back on his guard. There was a good chance Dewall was still there. Maybe others.

Marty cleared each room one by one, but found no sign of life, and, more importantly, no sign of Rust. He started calling for Rust because _fuck it_ ; the gunshot had already announced his presence, and anyone who was there probably knew he was there too. 

His heart rate rose with every empty room. He had to be there, Marty kept telling himself. He _had_ to. He kept calling for Rust, pausing to listen for a reply. There was none.

He cleared the house -- if you could call it that -- and found nothing but enough chemicals to take care of the Iron Crusaders tenfold.

He tried the shack adjacent to the house next. Threw the door open and was immediately met with an offensive smell. Blood, feces, sweat. He stepped in and moved forward, both hands on his gun, on guard with a heightened sense of awareness. He saw the fat body of Dewall sprawled at his feet. Bloodied, face-down. And there, behind him .... 

Rust was sitting at the bottom of the wall, stark naked and covered in blood. His eyes were closed, knees drawn up to his chest, and on the ground next to him was the knife that had put an end to Dewall. He was still. Marty's feet didn't touch the ground as he moved towards him.

Marty knelt down next to him, but Rust showed no indication of being aware of his presence. Marty carefully pulled the knife out of Rust's reach ("just in case", he thought). He stared at the blood streaked all over Rust; it seemed to cover every inch of him. He didn't have the luxury of wondering where much of it came from. Rust's shoulder was swollen and painful-looking, the dark red of a bullet wound forming the eye of the hurricane. Another in his thigh. Forearm slashed open, bird split into two. His face had been brutalized; black eyes blooming, a river of dried blood streaming from his nose down his mouth and chin, a gash and a golf ball-sized bruise on one cheekbone. His hair was matted with blood. The beginnings of a beard had grown since Marty had last seen him, caked with grime and blood. Marty carefully removed the syringe hanging out of Rust's arm, and threw it away with disgust. Rust was skeletal. There were some things Marty didn't look at out of respect.

But he was breathing. Marty reached out and gently shook Rust's uninjured shoulder.

"Hey, Rust. It's Marty. Hey."

No response. He shook harder, kept talking in a low, calm voice to Rust. Without opening his eyes, Rust finally tried weakly to push Marty's hands away, but there was no strength behind his efforts.

"No, you ain't real - just leave me be," he finally rasped.

"I'm real, Rust. I'm right here. Hey, look at me. The Ledouxs are both dead, and I came to get you out of here."

Rust's eyes half-opened, looked Marty up and down as though only half-seeing him. Marty held his gaze, somehow tried to look real.

Something in Rust relented and he reached out and grasped Marty's wrist, still staring at Marty in somewhat unsettling way. The touch seemed to reassure Rust, and some of the tension in his face relaxed.

"Captain fucking America, huh?"

Marty smiled despite himself.

"That's right, brother. Let's get out of here, okay?"

"Ready when you are."

"Okay. I gotta go back to the house real quick to call an ambulance, but I'll be right back for you."

He rose, but Rust spoke again.

"Better call two while you're at it," he said.

Marty looked around to see if he'd missed something, but he didn't seen anyone else, excluding Dewall's dead body. And judging by Rust's glassy, blown-out eyes (not to mention the syringe that had been hanging out of his mottled arm), his partner wasn't in his right mind. 

"Ain't no one here but you and me, and I'm fine," Marty said gently. "I'll be right back - just sit tight for one more minute."

But Rust pulled him back by the pant leg, pointing with his head towards a handle low on the adjacent wall. 

"In there." 

Marty pulled up on the handle and saw the girl, who stirred weakly and sat up, squinting in the light. Chained, bloodied, thin beyond belief. The small semblance of self-possession that Marty still had nearly deserted him, and he was overcome with the desire to go back and empty another round of bullets into Ledoux's dead body. Instead, he tried to maintain a grip on himself. 

"Are you alright?" he asked the girl quietly. She simply looked at him. 

He called it in, requesting two ambulances as soon as possible. Found the key to the girl's chains in Dewall's pocket - a small mercy. Marty wrapped her in a blanket and turned his attention back to Rust, who had been half-following his progress.

"Take her first. Then come back for me."

Marty nodded, hoping that they had time for this. He hated that he couldn't get Rust out immediately, but there was no way he was going to leave this girl. 

He worked his way carefully back to the main road, girl in his arms. She stared blankly as he evaded the booby traps and showed no reaction when he handed her off to the waiting medics. They set to work immediately and one EMT pulled Marty aside.

"Detective, what's her name?"

But Marty's vision had started swirling, the reality of what he was dealing with sinking in.

"I don't know," he said.

"Next of kin? Anyone looking for her?"

The world spinned harder, and Marty felt lightheaded.

"Fuck. I don't -- I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Sir, are you okay?"

"I have to go back. I gotta -- I have to get Rust."

And with that, he stumbled blindly back into the brush. He felt like he was walking in a haze, and it was only by luck that he was evading landmines and grenades along the way.

Halfway back, he stopped and threw up what little was in his stomach. Stood there panting and retching, overwhelmed by the waking nightmare he was in the middle of. As soon as he could, he continued on back to Rust.

When he finally got back, he found Rust dozing in the same position, but as soon as Rust heard him, he looked up warily. He visibly relaxed when he saw that it was Marty. Marty knelt down next to him again.

"Can you walk?"

Rust closed his eyes pensively, as though asking his body the same question. After a few seconds, he shook his head matter-of-factly. Walking was out.

"Would it be okay if I carried you?" The last thing Marty wanted to do was degrade Rust further, or take away even more control from him.

Rust nodded and then opened his eyes like he was prepared to go.

Marty stripped off his own button-down shirt and covered Rust's midsection. Rust held it in place as Marty got his arms around Rust's shoulders and knees (being mindful of Rust's injuries), lifted him gently, and carried him out of that hell. 

As Marty walked, he glanced down at Rust. Rust's eyelids were fluttering as though he was trying to stay awake, stay focused, remain on guard.

"I got you, Rust. You're alright now."

Marty got no reaction from the small figure in his arms, but Rust's eyelids finally fell shut and stayed that way. Marty carried on carefully, doing his best not to jostle Rust more than necessary. 

But Rust's eyes opened again as Marty was nearing the EMTs. 

"Hey, listen" he said weakly, voice no more than a whisper, "Go back there, spray some bullets around. Make it look like a gunfight. Don't tell ...."

"I won't, Rust. Can Maggie know?"

"Yes. She should be my--." Rust broke off, coughing. It sounded nasty.

"She should be my proxy. I don't have one."

Marty only had time to nod in what he hoped was a reassuring way before the medics were upon them. He handed Rust off and they jumped into action immediately, shock registering on every face. Marty picked his bloodstained shirt off the ground where it fell once they got a blanket over Rust. He watched, feeling helpless, unwilling to leave his partner's side, even though he knew that Rust was right. He had to call this in, and he had to make it look right.

In a way, it was funny, and a little creepy, he thought numbly: Rust was still the pragmatic thinker of the partnership. But then again, he should have figured that.

Marty knew the answers to the EMT's questions this time. Rustin Spencer Cohle. No next of kin. Been missing for a week. Maggie Hart, a nurse at Lafayette General, would serve as his medical proxy. Marty was glad that Rust chose her -- he knew she would want to help and she'd know what to do much better than he would. 

Finally, Rust lay still and silent under an oxygen mask as they loaded him into the ambulance. 

Marty's sense of unease grew as the ambulance pulled away, sirens blaring. Even in this condition, there was something organic about Rust. Marty was frightened by the thought of all that equipment, all of that synthetic interference threatening whatever new rhythm Rust had established with himself over the last week. What if they killed him in trying to save him?

Marty forced himself back to the scene one last time. The first thing he did was call Maggie. She was home, thank goodness, and he told her all he knew about Rust, told her to go to the hospital and take care of what she could and he'd get there as soon as possible. That done, he found an AK in the house and sprayed bullets around, like Rust said. Wiped the AK down and positioned it next to Reggie Ledoux, and then found a hand gun and repeated the process with Dewall. Emptied the handgun so it would seem like Rust could've taken him by surprise with the knife.

He left the hardest thing for last. He looked down at the boy's body, which was in sorry shape. He wanted to cover it up, at least, take it out of there and make sure it was put to rest. But this was technically a crime scene now, and he couldn't disturb it beyond what he'd already done. He closed the boy's eyes and got the hell out of there.

He arrived at the ER at Lafayette General to find Maggie in the waiting room, looking tense. She jumped up when she saw him and embraced him without any hesitation. A sense of uneasy relief washed over Marty and he bit back tears.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Mags. Just a bit shaken. Where is he?"

"He's in surgery. They brought him in right away. I know the surgeon -- MacAllister -- he's good. They'll let us know if ... you know. If there are any updates."

"Okay. I gotta call this in to the station. Come get me if they come out."

"I'll let you know. What are you gonna tell them?"

"Rust told me what he wants. I'll go with that."

Maggie smiled wanly. "Of course he did."

Marty went over to the payphone and put in a call to Quesada. Took a deep breath and waited for him to pick up.

"Hart? Where the hell have you been?"

"Sir, we got our suspect."

"Ledoux? You serious?"

"Yes sir. This morning."

The fact that they'd gotten their man hadn't even occurred to Marty until he said it aloud, and if ever a victory was bittersweet, this one was. He fought off tears and tried to keep his voice steady as he told Quesada the official story:

Thanks to Rust, a tip came through from a KA, telling them the location of Ledoux's cookhouse. He called Rust last night to tell him, and Rust grabbed the next plane from Alaska and got there first thing in the morning. Together, they located the cookhouse, but just as they were about to turn back and call it in, the Ledouxs started shooting at them.

In the ensuing gunfight, Rust took two bullets -- both from Reggie Ledoux -- but they persevered and took out both men. Marty had shot and killed Reggie, and Rust had had to stab Dewall to death after running out of ammo. They found a girl and a boy who were being held captive there. The boy was dead, but the girl had been brought to the hospital and needed IDing. There was more than enough evidence at the scene to connect Ledoux with Dora Lange. Marty made sure to praise Rust's bravery throughout the event. 

It worked. They would have the shooting board to answer to, and they would have to debrief, but Quesada congratulated Marty on a job well done. Said he'd send a team out to the scene, and they'd work on getting an ID for the girl. Marty should take as much time as he needed. And look after Rust.

Marty thought it was a good story. He felt confident that it would hold provided no one from the station came to visit Rust in the hospital. Figured that was a safe bet.

\-----

The day grew long as Marty and Maggie waited on. Maggie seemed torn between ignoring Marty altogether and being desperately glad that he was there. For his part, Maggie got up once to get them some coffee and call her parents, and Marty felt she couldn't come back soon enough.

Finally, at the end of the afternoon, Maggie caught sight of someone at the end of the hall and stood up anxiously. Marty saw a clean-cut, thin man walking towards them. The man introduced himself as Rust's surgeon, Dr. MacAllister. He looked exhausted and didn't smile.

"He came through surgery alright, and we've got him stabilized for the time being. We were able to remove the two bullets, which were deeply buried, and successfully close his wounds."

Marty felt Maggie sag with relief next to him. He stopped fighting the tears that had been threatening to splash onto his face. The doctor continued.

"Look, I've honestly never really seen this kind of physical trauma before, and I want to caution you that Mr. Cohle has an extremely long road ahead of him. Physically and psychologically. We'll keep a close eye on him while he's here, but there are limits to what a person can withstand. I'm frankly shocked by what I saw in there. Now, I don't mean to scare you, but I do want to make sure you're prepared."

Maggie recovered her voice first. "I know. We appreciate all you've done. We'll be here to keep an eye on him too."

Marty cleared his throat roughly.

"Thanks, doc. If anyone can survive this, it's Rust Cohle. Guy has about 18 lives."

MacAllister almost smiled at that.

"You're his proxy, right, Maggie? I would highly recommend doing some blood tests to check for contamination and infection. We'll need your permission, but this shouldn't wait. Also, I'd advise that we provide parenteral nutrition until he's well enough to eat. He needs to get his weight up if he's going to have a chance in the long run."

"Yes, go ahead. You have my permission."

"Okay. He's in post-anesthesia care now, if you'd like to see him. Nurses should be waking him up soon. Down the hall to your left."

They found Rust lying inert in the recovery room. He had been cleaned up, and the difference was huge. Rust looked peaceful, a slight, uncharacteristic smile on his face like he was having a good dream. Stitched up and held together by expertly-wrapped gauze. Skin scrubbed, cuts and bruises clean and shining with antibiotic ointment. His wet hair leaving a damp halo on the pillow. Breathing steady. The smell of antiseptic. Immaculate.

Marty reveled in the momentary relief. He hoped Rust would stay like this for as long as he could. 

But two nurses were already prepping to wake him up -- piling a layer of blankets on top of him and putting an oxygen mask over his face -- and Maggie excused herself, since she had to get ready for her shift. 

"Stay," she told Marty. "Make sure he knows you're here. I'll get you permission to stay outside of regular visiting hours, and I'll check in with you both later. Call me if you need anything. Any of the other nurses can get me. "

Marty kept a hand on Rust's shoulder as one of the nurses worked on rousing him by calling his name in a overly-cheerful voice and telling him that he'd done great in surgery and that it was time to wake up now. Rust came to slowly, confused, his former peacefulness shattered by rising panic until Marty forced him to look at him, to know he was there. Then Rust calmed down, but he was shivering harshly as he came out of the anesthetic, so Marty did his best to wrap the blankets tighter around him where he could. The nurses established that he was responsive and kept him answering questions as they fussed around him, hooking up IVs and monitors. Rust half-responded to their prompts, still shivering, and then went out again as they moved him to a ICU room and got him settled. And with that, Marty was left alone with his partner.

It didn't take long for Marty to get anxious, MacAllister's words echoing in his head. As tough as Rust was, everyone had limits, and Marty couldn't stop fearing that he might have finally surpassed them. The laws of humanity applied to Rust, even if he never seemed to think so. What if Rust just gave up now? What if he never physically recovered? What if he'd completely left the house for good? And how would Marty look after him if so? 

The sun went down and the hour grew late, and Rust slept on. Marty thought longingly of the air mattress he'd been crashing on for the last few weeks, but it didn't feel right to go back to Rust's apartment when Rust was here, finally found and stuck in a hospital bed. Marty resigned himself to staying. He settled into the chair next to Rust's bed, which immediately proved itself to be the most uncomfortable chair in the world.

Sleep didn't come. Instead, images of Ledoux's camp filled Marty's mind. The desolation, the rot, the dead bodies of Reggie and Dewall and the boy, the girl, and Rust, like that.

He drifted, half-fighting these images, until well after midnight. And then there was a low groan from the bed and a rustle of sheets, and Marty opened his eyes to see Rust, awake. And trying to get out of bed.

"Woah there. Alright, slow down," Marty jumped up and rushed over to stand in front of Rust, blocking him from getting up, one hand on his frail, uninjured shoulder, holding him down. "Where you going, Rust?"

Rust's voice came out small, high, unnatural sounding. "We have to go before -- I need to -- he's gonna --."

Marty tried to look into Rust's eyes to see if his partner was actually there or not, but Rust's gaze was glued to the ground some feet in front of him, purple-ringed eyes half-closed, totally spaced-out. He was still trying in vain to stand up, hospital gown askew and bones too prominent, but there was no strength in him, and Marty held him down in a sitting position effortlessly with one hand. 

"There's nowhere you need to go, Rust. You're safe now, alright? You're here with me and neither of us needs to go anywhere."

Rust stilled.

"You hearing me?"

Rust nodded without looking up, thousand yard stare still in place.

"You think you can lie back down and get some sleep?"

There was a long pause and then, breathless and barely a whisper, "it hurts, Marty."

And at that, Marty's heart broke. He fought back tears and squeezed Rust's shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

"I know, brother. But it'll heal. You gotta rest."

Rust nodded again and leaned back, closing his eyes. Marty helped lift his legs back onto the bed, worried about the strain on his broken body. Marty pulled the sheets over him and tried to up the medication level on Rust's pump, but it beeped angrily back at him, telling him that it was already at the maximum dosage. Rust's breath grew even and shallow again as he fell back asleep, and Marty hoped that was that.

He sat back down in his chair, exhausted and shaken, head in his hands, and he couldn't stop thinking, "This is not my partner. This is not Rust Cohle."

An hour later, it happened again. This time, Rust started crying. That was when Marty finally called the nurse.

A small, mousey girl came in, clipboard in hand. She immediately rushed over and pushed Rust roughly back onto the bed, telling him in an authoritative voice to "lie down, sir." She put the guardrails up on the sides of his bed and Rust's eyes closed again, breath ragged, face still damp with tears. The nurse checked his stats, made a note on her clipboard, and headed for the door again. Marty was dumbfounded.

"Hello? Excuse me. Yeah - whatever you're giving him -- morphine or whatever -- he needs more of it. He's in pain and he keeps waking up confused."

The nurse checked her clipboard again.

"I'm sorry, Mister ....?"

"Hart."

"Mr. Hart. I'm sorry, but I can't exceed the dosage prescribed by his doctor. However, the current amount should be sufficient for most patients."

"Rustin Cohle is not most patients, alright? This guy has the tolerance level of a horse. Whatever you're giving him, it ain't near enough."

"I'm sorry. I'm just not authorized to increase his dosage any more. I can contact his doctor, but it's already very high, and --."

Marty's temper snapped.

"Listen - you have _no idea_ what this man has been through, and right now he just needs to get through the night. This should not be happening, okay? So either give him enough drugs to knock him out or get someone in here in the next three minutes who can, because --."

"Everything okay in here?" Marty whipped around to see Maggie standing at the door, wearing scrubs and pointing her iciest glare in his direction.

"Oh thank God. Mags, Rust needs more drugs and this idiot --."

"Stop yelling at her. She's doing her job and doesn't need you making it any harder." 

Marty shut up. Guessed Maggie was over her gratitude that he was safe. Maggie looked at the other nurse, who was looking at anything besides the two of them.

"It's okay, Deb. I know him -- I'll take it from here. I'm sorry about this."

The girl left and Maggie strode over and changed a number of settings on Rust's drip. It could have been Marty's imagination, but he thought he saw Rust physically relax and emit a sigh of relief. Maggie was glaring at Marty again.

"I'll take the heat for it if I have to, but Marty, don't ever let me hear you talking to a nurse like that again, okay? Chances are that Rust would end up suffering because of your bad behavior."

"I'm sorry, Mags," said Marty quietly, and he meant it. 

There was an awkward silence between them, punctuated only by the beeping of Rust's heart monitor.

"He uh ... he ain't gonna be too happy about that beard when he wakes up," Marty said, uselessly trying for levity.

"That beard is going to be the last thing on his mind when he wakes up," replied Maggie sharply.

Marty nodded, cowed and angry at his own insensitivity.

"Listen, you need to be able to do this, okay?"

"Do what, exactly?"

"Handle this. Help Rust."

Marty looked at his estranged wife, desperate for answers.

"Mags, I ain't ... I ain't like you. I'm not used to this, I ain't seen anything like this. All the people I try to help are already dead. And hell, Rust _should_ be dead by the looks of it, and all I want is to help him, but I don't know what he needs."

"Marty, in all my years as a nurse, I've never seen anything like this either. But that doesn't change the fact that it's Rust, and he needs someone here for him. Someone to act as due North so that he can orient himself and find his way back. Can you do that?"

"I can try."

"You'll have to do better than try. You're the only person he's got. Call me when you need to take a break and I'll keep an eye on him."

Maggie left, and Marty was alone again with Rust, hoping he was up to the task.

\-----

Marty didn't get much sleep after that, but he came back with a cup of shitty hospital coffee the next morning to find Rust stirring. A nurse came in and checked Rust's stats before asking his permission to check his bandages. He nodded his consent, and she manhandled him into a sitting position. Marty joined her at Rust's bedside to see exactly what was going on. She talked him through it all as she went, concluding that everything looked good for the time being. Marty was aware of Rust watching him, so he made a point of keeping his expression as neutral as possible, never wincing or looking away. The nurse helped Rust lie back, apologizing for the discomfort. Rust remained silent, but glared at Marty through the entire process, self-conscious and helpless as he was moved around.

After the nurse left, Rust was still glaring at Marty.

"What's that look for?"

"Nothin'. The fuck you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question, dumbass. My partner's in the hospital. He almost died."

"So? That's his problem."

"Yeah it is. And it's also my problem, because he's my goddamn partner, even if he likes to pretend he isn't."

Rust leaned back further into the pillows. 

"Talk about overkill with the Captain America bullshit."

Marty stifled a smile, but still somehow felt that Rust was doing an impression of his usual orneriness. Rust fell asleep again a few minutes later.

\-----

It was the next day that Rust started to talk. Actually talk. It started when Marty came back from a quick visit to the station - he was greeted as a hero, which only made things more painful. Somehow it was a relief to return to Rust's hospital room and find the man awake.

"How you feelin', Rust?"

"Numbed up. And kinda slow ... y'know ... stupid-like ...." Rust trailed off, looking somewhere in the direction of his feet.

"Well, now you know what it takes to get those drugs you always wanted."

Rust didn't smile. Didn't move and didn't look at him. Marty sobered up.

"You know, that ain't a bad way to be right now, considering ...."

Rust nodded, but Marty could tell that it was just an automatic response. And then, out of nowhere:

"Marty, this thing ain't over."

"What are you talking about, Rust? We got our guys. We finished it. Granted, absolutely nothing went according to plan, but I'll wait till you feel better to give you hell for that."

"I'm serious. There's some kind of structure. It's not just a few guys. There's a hierarchy. And the leader, they call him the Yellow King. That was in Dora Lange's diary too, remember? I think I might have seen him one night --." Rust cut off suddenly and lapsed into preoccupied silence.

Marty gave him a second before cautiously asking, "would you be able to ID him?"

"Nah. Didn't get a good look at him. And anyway, I can't be sure that he was real. The guy I saw, I mean. I can't be sure of anything that happened, at least not after the first dose of that shit they gave me."

Marty winced at Rust's frankness.

"Well, both those assholes are dead. That's as real as it gets."

Rust nodded again, but seemed unconvinced. There was a long silence between them until Rust spoke again, quietly.

"What's the girl's name?"

Marty looked up at Rust, but Rust was avoiding eye contact.

"Kelly. Kelly Rita. Been missing for a while. She's stable, but catatonic, so far. They're looking after her."

Rust nodded thoughtfully and lapsed into silence again.

Maggie's words from the other night came back to Marty, and he made a point of changing the subject. For lack of a better option, he started telling Rust how he had found him and what he'd told Quesada as their cover, but eventually he looked up and saw that Rust had drifted off again.

\-----

Time marched on, and Rust began to heal physically, but he remained mostly mute and he maintained a detachment that Marty found troubling. Marty tried to overcome it by distracting Rust - taking him outside in a wheelchair when he felt up to it, talking idly to him whether he was listening or not. The hospital staff wheeled him in for repeated psych evaluations and added anti-depressants to Rust's medication regimen, which Rust privately resolved to stop taking as soon as he was in charge of his own meds. Maggie stopped by often, treating Rust with all the gentleness in the world.

About ten days after Rust was brought in, Maggie pulled Marty aside.

"Listen, it's time to start thinking about what's next. It's going to be a while before he can manage on his own. And we both know that he won't take care of himself. Won't go to physical therapy unless someone makes him, might go back to drinking. He needs some love right now. I think he should come stay with us when he's discharged so we can look after him."

"'Us'? As in ..."

"Yes. Us. He needs you there too and I can't do it alone."

Relief washed over Marty, like he'd just let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. Distant, but there. He could go home.

"Thanks, Mags. I - "

"I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for Rust, to make sure he gets better. Who knows, maybe we can even get him to see a psychiatrist. He did before ...."

Marty was tempted to tell her that Rust had only done that because he'd been locked in a place where he had to. But he bit back that comment.

"Yeah, that would be good for him. Um ... if we can get him to do it -- yeah."

"The moment he's back on his feet, he can go home and I don't care where you go. It's going to be like having a third kid to take care of, so you should expect to pull your weight."

Marty nodded, realizing that he and Maggie would have to be united in this effort if they were to succeed at all with Rust. And maybe if he could do this for Rust, behave himself and show Maggie that his intentions were in the right place ... well, maybe he could have a better chance of getting his life back when it was all over.

"I don't think he's ever healed fully in his life," said Maggie. "It's about time he did,"

\-----

A few days after Rust was discharged from the hospital, he woke at 2 AM. The narcotics he was on helped some with sleeping, but he'd been out for four hours straight on Marty and Maggie's couch that afternoon, so he figured it made sense that he'd pay for it now.

The Harts had set him up in the guest room. He'd protested at length when they first told him that he was coming to stay with them, but they had better stamina these days and they'd teamed up to outlast him. Marty had gone back to Rust's house to pick up some clothes and some books and his ledger ("I just emptied out your house," he'd joked), and that had been that.

There was a lot that had happened that Rust didn't know what to do with. It was one of the reasons he wasn't talking much these days. At this point, he just felt strangely numb. He knew from experience that his instinct was to quell all emotions, which usually only lead to them emerging on a time delay. There wasn't any telling when things were going to hit him, and no telling how he would manage when they did. The problem with trauma like this was that was that it hid around corners and jumped out at the tiniest recall when it was least wanted, neutralizing all the rationalizations and logical arguments he tried to battle it with. But then again, thought Rust, maybe he'd be better at handling it this time. He'd had a lot of experience.

And something strange had happened in his mind when he was under during surgery, a kind of presence he never expected, and he'd never breathe a word of it to anyone else, but still ... it occupied his thoughts and somehow gave him hope.

He noticed the pressing silence around him and thought about how it was created by a household at rest. It was a different kind of silence from the dead, solitary kind his life usual formed. He thought about the houses around this one, with each inhabitant sleeping peacefully, unaware of just how dark the night could get. Thought about the night sky outside his window, indifferent to the trivialities and sufferings of mankind, a steady, stable force for all of eternity. Thought about Ginger and Miles, but then stopped thinking about Ginger and Miles. Thought about the Yellow King silhouetted in the doorway, but then stopped that too.

Thought about the fact that there would be coffee in the morning that he didn't have to make. Thought about Audrey and Maisie, who would bounce off to school in the morning only knowing that their dad's friend had had an accident and was staying with them until he felt better. Thought about how strange it was that they could exist under the same roof as him. Thought about the peck on the cheek that Maggie was allowing Marty these days when he left the house to check in at the station. And the one she allowed when he returned. Thought about how neither of them ever said anything about it when all he wanted to do was lie on their couch and stare off into space for hours on end. Marty had offered him a book once and he'd asked for a bottle of Robitussin instead, and that had been the end of that. Thought about how they didn't say anything either when he didn't want to come to the table for dinner, but how they always seemed to be there the second he needed something. Thought about how Marty had helped him shave at the hospital a few days after surgery, keeping a watchful eye but letting Rust do it himself before cleaning up the parts Rust missed when he got too tired. Thought about how Marty had made it so he could show up back at the station when the time came without anyone being any the wiser.

Thought about the fact that he was not alone, and there were at least two people in the world who were not indifferent to his existence. Thought about all these things and figured that must be what comfort was. Figured for right now, that would work alright for him, but he'd re-evaluate in the morning. He slept.


End file.
